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Authors: Alan Gordon

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BOOK: A Death in the Venetian Quarter
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I thanked him and sought out Ruzzini. He was a hale fellow in his fifties, with a good deal of brown left in his beard and hair and with arms and chest powerful enough to suggest he still pitched in with the loading of the bales on occasion. At the moment, he was counting a stack of silver.
“Begging your pardon, noble sir,” I said when he had finished and made an entry in his ledger.
“Yes?” he said in a gruff voice.
“I have come to offer my condolences over the death of your colleague, and my services as well.”
He looked at me sourly. “We have no need of jesting at a funeral, Fool.”
“But I am a singer, too. If there is a wake, then I could provide you with the appropriate music for the occasion. I know your city, your language, and your songs quite well.”
“Our city is here,” he said. “Most of us were born here and grew up speaking Greek before we spoke Venetian.”
“As you can hear, I speak that language, too. Sir, a proper wake needs music to send the departed to Heaven in the spirit of joy.”
He looked across the room at the coffin.
“All right, we might as well,” he said. “He had little joy in his life. Let him at least have some now. Come back later tonight. We'll be maintaining the vigil here.”
“And the funeral?”
He grimaced. “We're negotiating terms with our protectors. Our cemetery is outside the city walls. They won't let us bury him unless they have an armed escort to keep us from joining our compatriots on the ships. I think we'll be able to bury him tomorrow.”
“Very good, sir. I—”
But I was interrupted by a boy rushing in yelling, “Come quickly! They're tearing everything down!”
People rushed from the room. I followed, curious to see what was happening. The commotion was coming from the other side of the gate.
A Vigla squadron was pulling down a house by the seawall. The former occupants were standing by piles of furniture and other belongings, watching the activity with forlorn expressions. A captain was standing in front of them, reading from a scroll.
“All buildings against the outside of the seawall in this quarter are to be torn down,” he proclaimed. “You have one hour to remove all your possessions. After that, we take no responsibility. This is by order of the Emperor Alexios Angelos.”
The house came crashing down with a splintering of timbers and an eruption of dust. The guards stood back, some of them coughing, then started loading the wreckage onto wagons to cart away.
Ruzzini stormed up to the captain, his face ruddy. Two of the Vigla drew their swords as a precaution.
“Captain, this is an outrage!” shouted the merchant. “We are your friends and neighbors. Have we no rights at all?”
“You shouldn't have been allowed to build against the walls, anyway,” said the captain. “We have to clear them to defend the city.”
“But Captain—”
“Look, Ruzzini, you have no say in this!” shouted the captain. “If you have a problem, take it up with them!”
He pointed with his sword and the crowd turned and then collectively gasped.
A ship, a merchantman larger than any floating against the three wharves, had come around the tip of the seawall. Dozens of shields, with all manner of coats of arms painted on them, hung over the sides. The sails were furled, but from the topmast flew the flag of Saint Mark and the emblem of Montferrat, and three banks of oars projected from the hull. As the ship cleared the seawall, another appeared behind it, and another behind that.
The fleet was surging up the Bosporos.
[They] call themselves Venetikoi; nourished by the sea, they are vagabonds like the Phoenicians and cunning of mind.
——NIKETAS CHONIATES,
O CITY OF BYZANTIUM
 
 
T
he great iron chain that stretched from the Galata Tower on the far shore of the Golden Horn to the Eugenios Gate by the Akropolis was slowly raised until it blocked the entrance to the harbor. The Venetians watched it desolately, knowing that their ships and cargoes were trapped inside for the duration of the siege, and their fortunes with them.
The fleet did not attempt the chain, nor the shore by the tower. It seemed to be heading toward the opposite shore of the Bosporos. As invasion wasn't imminent, I decided to continue my investigation. I'm not much good at stopping fleets, anyway.
I first went for religious counsel. This might surprise anyone familiar with my general distrust of established churches, but the particular cleric I sought had his own peculiar expertise. In this city, the Patriarch of the Church was appointed by the emperor. The more corrupt the emperor, the more corrupt the Patriarch, and the more corrupt the Patriarch, the more corrupt the Church. And of the two hundred churches scattered across this city, from the grandeur of the Hagia Sophia down to the little two-benches-and-a-cross emporia, the most corrupt was Saint Stephen's by the River. It was from this husk of a church that Father Esaias spun his webs.
Few had seen his face. I was one of the few, and I didn't care to repeat the experience. He hid it beneath a simple cowl and lived in a luxurious apartment concealed within the crypts beneath the church. A small cadre of padres surrounded him, each more deadly than the next. The depredations of the rich and powerful occupy a rarefied world of their own, but the commonplace crime that afflicted the rest of us was Esaias's bailiwick. He had a piece of almost every act of extortion, theft, prostitution, fraud, and smuggling in the city. And that was his good side. He had no enemies that anyone knew about. At least, not for long.
When Aglaia and I had first arrived in the city, we had struck an alliance with him—one of necessity more than desire, but it had proved mutually advantageous on more than one occasion, so it continued. Fortunately, the goals of the Fools' Guild did not generally butt into the business of the underworld, so there was no need for us to challenge each other. Not that we thought there never would be such an occasion, but so far, so good.
The house of worship was on the west bank of the Lycos river, which entered the city from the northwest and was more or less sucked dry before it could reach the sea. It was a medium-sized brick church, with no distinguishing features except the sense of menace it projected over an already menacing neighborhood.
Father Theodore was standing inside the entrance, watching me approach. A burly man with no discernible expression on his face, he was a fearsome swordsman. He wore one sword openly outside his cassock today. I expected that he had some smaller weapons concealed inside, but I had never put that theory to the test and never wanted to.
“Good afternoon, Father,” I said. “How's business?”
“A bit busy at the moment, Feste,” he replied. “You wish to see Father Esaias?”
“If he could spare a moment, I would be most grateful.”
“You know the way,” he said, and he stood aside to let me pass.
I descended the stone steps to the crypts and approached an altar. I stood before a screen on which Saint Stephen looked benignly at me. I tapped lightly on it. Saint Stephen looked at me with one painted eye and one real one. I crossed myself piously. The real one winked, and the screen slid aside.
Father Melchior was on the other side. He greeted me warmly and motioned me over to a cushioned chair.
“Good to see you, Feste,” he said. “Father Esaias will be here shortly. He's hearing confessions.”
I heard a slap and a muffled yelp from another room. Melchior glanced in its direction.
“That fellow should be confessing soon,” he observed.
“I hope his sins were not too grievous,” I said.
“His penance should be purely monetary. Wine while you're waiting?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Father Esaias came in and plunged his bony hands into a basin.
“He is forgiven, Father Melchior,” he said, scrubbing hard until there was no trace of blood. “Get him cleaned up and send him on his way.”
“Yes, Father,” said Melchior, and he left the room.
“My apologies, Fool,” said Father Esaias as he dried his hands on a towel. “There is panic in the air today. I have to administer reassurances.” He sat in a chair opposite mine and poured himself some wine. “Business or social?” he asked.
“Business, I'm afraid,” I replied. “I'm looking for a prostitute.”
“I can refer you to several. What did you have in mind?”
“It's not for me, it's for a friend.”
He snorted.
“Perhaps you'll tell me what you really want,” he said.
“A silk merchant by the name of Bastiani was poisoned last night
in the Venetian quarter. He had been known to receive visits from a young lady who normally works the Forum of Theodosios. I'd like to talk to her.”
“As would I,” he said sharply. “The ladies of that forum aren't allowed to make private calls. Either she's one of ours and she's working on the side, or she's a competitor. And I dislike competitors. What does she look like?”
“I got a glimpse of her, I think, but she was cloaked and veiled.”
“That doesn't sound like one of ours,” he said. “Their wares are usually on display at all times.”
“Maybe at the forum, but not for private visits?”
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But you've given me little to go by. I'll drop a word and see what turns up. Forgive me if it isn't my main concern at the moment.”
“I understand completely, and I thank you for any help. And please let me talk to her before you begin disciplining her.”
“Why does this merchant concern you?”
“Anything Venetian concerns me. What do you think of the present state of the world?”
He shrugged. “We will act according to how the situation develops. What goes on in Blachernae? You were there this morning, weren't you?”
“Confusion and blame. No coherent course of conduct, yet. Normally, no sane army would attempt these walls, but given the disarray of the Empire, the Crusaders might have a chance.”
“Are you still friendly with that Varangian captain?”
“Henry? Yes.”
He put his goblet down with a thud.
“In our own way, we are as patriotic as any faction in this city,” he said. “Tell him that we can't help him outside the walls. We're no good on open plains where stealth is not a strength. But if the walls are
breached and the foreigners brave the alleys, they will find them as deadly as any terrain they have ever encountered. We will guarantee that.”
“I'll pass it along,” I said. “Whence comes this loyalty?”
“If the Crusaders win, they take the traditional three days of looting,” he said. “That won't affect our holdings—we've already moved our wealth away for safety. But if they steal from the rest of the city, that cuts into our future prospects.”
“And, as you said, you dislike competitors.”
“Precisely. Go in peace, my son.” He raised his hands in blessing. As it was meant sincerely, I thanked him and departed.
And yet, I did not feel especially blessed.
 
I hurried home to rejoin my fellow fools. Aglaia was already there, preparing the meal. Rico arrived soon after, and Plossus last of all, somersaulting through the window.
“Food,” he cried. “I have had a hard day of counting. It has made me hungry.”
“Counting ships makes you hungry?” wondered Aglaia as she placed a bowl of stew in front of him. “That's strange. Counting sheep makes me sleepy.”
“I have been counting ships that are shipping counts,” said Plossus. “Along with earls, knights, and all the rabble they've brought along to do the real dying.”
“We heard there were two hundred in the fleet,” said Rico.
“A gross exaggeration,” said Plossus. “There are a hundred and ninety-seven. Forty of the big transports, a hundred horse transports, and the rest galleys. It took most of the day for them to pass by the city. What a glorious sight they made! The knights on the ships hung their shields over the sides just to flash their colors at the Greeks.
People were bringing blankets and baskets of food to the Akropolis to spend the day watching them.”
“What were the people saying about it?” I asked.
“Lot of disbelief, nervousness. No one seemed to have heard the fleet was coming until they saw it, so they are wondering about how prepared the Emperor is to face it. Everyone is confident that the walls will hold, but they are a little distressed that there was no local navy opposing the invasion.”
“Did the boy Alexios's name come up?”
“Not once. I guess Blachernae's done a thorough job of suppressing that bit of information from the rest of the city. Other than that, there was little hostility, little uproar. A couple of archers in the Varangian Guard loosed a couple of arrows from the seawall, but it looked more like they were betting on the distance than actually trying to hit anything. The fleets too far away.”
“Any sign from our people?”
“I heard some singing from the
Eagle,
but couldn't make out what it was. Probably Tantalo—it was the first ship up the straits, a real monster, and it was flying mostly Venetian colors.”
“Yes, I saw it when it passed the Golden Horn,” I said. “Good work, lad. What's happening with the Emperor?”
“Agitation, in a word,” said Rico. “He wanted no distraction from me. He wouldn't even make time for that Egyptian minx, which is unheard of. She sat by the throne and pouted prettily, but he's called for his horse and armor and sent for the Ikon of the Virgin from the Church of the Theotokos.”
“He means to ride?” exclaimed Aglaia. “He can barely walk on those legs.”
“He's afraid,” said Rico. “He mutters about God's revenge upon him for what he did to his brother. He's lashing out at all of his generals and advisors. It's not exactly inspiring.”
“He should let the battle come here,” said Plossus. “If the army goes after the Crusaders, they'll be spread too thin.”
“Strategic, but not popular,” I said. “If the people don't see some active pursuit soon, they'll turn against him.”
“That's what the Emperor says,” said Rico. “He's talking about sending a delegation to the Crusaders, but he's waiting to see where they land first.”
“Something we need to know as well. And the Empress?”
“Consulting astrologers, as usual,” said Aglaia. “She's taking the invasion as a personal affront after all the hard work she's done quashing unfavorable omens.”
“She shouldn't take it so hard,” protested Rico. “She did her best. There's hardly a statue left unmutilated in the entire city, thanks to her.”
“Nevertheless, she's upset. Most of all, because she fears the Empire will fall before she's finished remarrying off her daughters.”
“Not to mention the fact that two of them could end up widows,” I commented. “Palaiologos and Laskaris are going to be right in the thick of battle if it gets that far. You marry your daughters to generals, you take your chances.”
“There's that,” agreed Aglaia. “But at least the first two daughters are married right now. And Palaiologos is claiming his old leg injury is acting up, which may prevent him from going to war.”
“Convenient,” laughed Rico.
“And there's a bit of a scandal brewing with the third daughter,” Aglaia continued.
“What's little Evdokia done to disgrace the family now?” asked Plossus.
“There is no one capable of disgracing that family,” said Rico.
“She's fallen for a married man,” said Aglaia.
“Not for the first time,” said Rico.
“No, but this one's in prison.”
“Ouch,” I said. “That doesn't sound promising. Criminal or political?”
“Political, I think. Alexios threw him in a few years ago for the usual suspicions of conspiracy. Evdokia met him while making the charitable rounds, and now her charity has narrowed considerably in its scope. All of which has nothing to do with the Crusade, but it's what occupies Euphrosyne's attention while her world is being destroyed.”
BOOK: A Death in the Venetian Quarter
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